Regnbuen (The Rainbow)
by Bowl of Lemons
Summary: Hans Christian Andersen's The Little Mermaid focuses on just that- The Little Mermaid- but the Prince is only mentioned. Regnbuen, meaning rainbow in Danish, is the tale of Prince Tristan of Denmark, and his many Isoldes.


Regnbuen (_The Rainbow)_

I woke up to gentle hands shaking my shoulders. "Prince, Prince, it's time to wake up." I opened my eyes to Isaïe's face as he hovered over me. "Happy Birthday," he said, backing away respectfully, his head bowed.

"Good morning, Isaïe," I said, stretching my arms over my head with a smile. Isaïe turned and threw the grand curtains open. Sunlight bathed my chambers, covering every surface with the warmth of morning sunlight. Isaïe's nose crinkled as he glanced out the window.

"The ship is here. Some guests have already lined up out on the pier." He tapped at the window as if to show his point. I crawled out of bed and walked up behind him. He hadn't lied; there were tens, perhaps even hundreds, of people in their nicest dress on the wharf. The wind blew the ladies' hair and ruffled the men's coattails.

"You're still invited, you know," I said. I knew he would refuse the invitation. _Servants are not meant to be seen_, he would say. Isaïe shook his head silently, making his way to my closet.

From inside the large closet, I heard him ask, "What would you like to wear on your birthday, Prince Tristan?"

I wanted to frown. Always 'Prince'. "It matters not to me. You have better taste than I, after all." I shrugged, though I knew he couldn't see me. A quiet laugh echoed from the closet, followed by the rustling of fabric.

Isaïe emerged holding fawn-colored breeches, a white shirt, and a royal purple coat. I nodded in approval and dressed with his help to button my sleeves.

The sun had gone to sleep hours ago, but my party was in full swing. I was good at mingling—it's hard to be a prince and not be. A woman in a corseted dress approached me, her cheeks and lips rouged.

"Prince Tristan," she purred, pressing a hand on my chest. Her Danish had a distinctly Russian lilt to it. It was harder to understand than Isaïe's native French accent. "I'm Czarina Irina Petrovna."

"Ah, I apologize, Czarina." I said, bowing my head. She smiled seductively. I was slightly uncomfortable. She must have been nineteen to my sixteen. Her bosom said no less.

"Irina, please. How has your birthday been, Tristan?" she asked flirtatiously.

I smiled politely. "Wonderful," I said. My parents would have loved her. Perhaps I should've courted her just to please them. I'm sure some Russo-Danish alliance would be appreciated.

"This is the best party I've attended in a long while." She took my hand and kissed it before removing one of her larger rings and slipping it on my pinky finger. "A gift from Russia."

"Thank you, Irina." As soon as the words left my lips, a loud clap of thunder echoed through the air. Irina glanced up and stared into the dark distance, where lightning lit the sky.

Her smile fell as she said, "It seems there's a storm coming. Perhaps we should—"

Before she could finish her suggestion, the ship lurched forward. Rain began to pelt down, drenching my shoulders. Another lurch of the sea sent men across the ship to the deck.

Suddenly, a massive crest of salty water rose. My stomach dropped as I felt the ship underneath me sway violently. Irina fell, but with the water stinging my eyes, I couldn't reach down to save her without falling myself.

Water surged the deck and I swallowed a great deal of salty liquid. Then I began to choke on it. My legs went limp and I slumped to the deck. My vision faded in and out and I heard Irina screaming out in her native tongue before I saw nothing and understood less.

I could breathe. It seemed trivial, but my faint recollection of the night before made the fact absolutely incredible. Death had been inevitable. But I could breathe. Perhaps I was already dead? Perhaps breath was the first sign of afterlife? One could breathe in Heaven, could one not?

A voice filtered through the air—a soft voice, a gentle voice, and a female voice. Which meant it definitely wasn't Isaïe. My eyes felt weighted down with lead, but I pried them open to see a young girl standing over me. Behind her was the familiar expanse of the Royal Cathedral.

"Prince?" she asked quietly. Her strawberry-blonde hair hung over her shoulder and her blue eyes sparkled. "Prince, are you okay?"

My throat was tight and my lips were dry, but I managed to mutter, "What happened?"

Her eyes widened. "You don't remember?" She had an accent that I couldn't place.

"I remember my ship sinking, but how am I alive?"

Just as the girl was about to answer, several ladies appeared from behind a sand dune. She waved them over and their voices began to intermingle until I wasn't sure who was speaking or what they were saying. Not to mention, they were speaking in a tongue I only half-understood.

"We must get him back to the palace!" one woman said. Tones of agreement followed and before I knew it, I was being hauled to my feet and led off toward the castle in the distance.

"Tristan," Isaïe murmured, his voice filled with awe. I smiled at him and pulled my servant into a tight hug. It was rare for him to call me by my given name, no matter how many times I asked him to, and the look in his eyes reflected the surprise in his voice. "You're alive?" he whispered into my ear, almost more a question than a statement. I nodded and released him.

"Son," my father, the king, said gently, "I'm delighted you have survived."

My mother kissed my cheek and I returned the gesture before she said, "Perhaps you should take to your chambers to rest. It has been a very taxing last day for you, no doubt."

"You're right, Mor. I'll rest." With that, I turned and started back to my chambers. I could hear Isaïe's soft footsteps behind me. He always walked three steps behind me in public, as was expected from a servant, but when no one else was around, he walked beside me as an equal. My mother once told me I was too close to him—that it looked bad and I should consider getting a new servant—but for once, I didn't heed her advice. Isaïe was important to me.

As soon as the door to my chamber closed, Isaïe grabbed my wrist and turned me around. "What happened?" he asked, his learnt Danish accent slipping into his native French.

"I don't know. I fainted last night and then woke up this morning to a beautiful girl."

Isaïe stared at me for a moment, his brow furrowed. "A girl? Who? Did she save you?"

I shook my head. "I didn't ask her name, but she must have. How else could I be alive?"

Isaïe glanced over my shoulder out the window. "I don't know," he admitted quietly. I didn't respond, only turned and drew the curtains, engulfing my room in a warm shade. Isaïe passed behind me, his shoulder bumping mine, as he went to turn down my bed.

"Thank you," I said as I undressed and climbed into bed.

Isaïe, at the door, said over his shoulder, "I'm glad you're alive, Tristan." Before I could say anything, he was gone. So I closed my eyes and slept. Dreams of my savior filled my head, her red-tinted hair, her milky skin, and her lucid blue eyes.

Isaïe had finally let me leave the palace after I explained that I'd lost the ring Irina had given to me. If I found it, maybe I would give it to the girl that saved me, if I ever saw her again. He'd insisted that he could find it for me, but relinquished at the logic that only I knew what the ring looked like.

The sand sank under my boots as I climbed a tall dune. I looked to where I'd woken up and my breath caught. A naked girl lay on the sand, her hair red against the sand. I ran over and stared at her for a moment. She bore likeness to the girl who saved me. She awoke with a start.

"Are you okay?" I asked. Her sapphire blue eyes grew wide. She nodded fervently, but said nothing. She took the hand I offered and stood with a cringe. "Does something hurt?" She didn't reply. "Can you speak?" I asked. She shook her head as I took her hand and led her home. She needed to see a doctor.

After nearly a full year, Isaïe stopped glaring at the girl I'd found, whom my mother had lovingly named Irsk, after her exotic Irish look. Mor had even given Irsk her old dresses of silk. Irsk was beautiful and she had a lovely heart. Everyone knew I loved her as my adopted sister.

One morning, Isaïe woke me and had a bag packed. "You are to visit a princess," he explained as he buttoned my shirt. "Sweden's—the kingdom to the north and east. Just across the Kattegat."

I was thankful that Isaïe was coming. He was good with languages, and his Swedish was far better than mine. I also brought Irsk, whose opinion of women I trusted greatly. Isaïe, unlike Irsk, always found faults in women. He meant a lot to me, but he seemed to hate anyone I liked. Irsk, though, she was able to acknowledge a lady's qualities.

The ship on which we sailed to Sweden was the first ship I'd been on since my sixteenth birthday. I had hoped the fear wouldn't paralyze me, but anxiety had gripped my stomach from the moment I stepped on board. It was only Isaïe who could calm me by playing games and telling stories. Irsk joined in, as well, and the time had passed quickly.

Sweden's land was much like my own. Perhaps the only difference was the tongue itself—one I barely understood at the best of times.

The princess, Izabel, entered the ballroom with a veil over her face. Isaïe and Irsk stood behind me, each with a hand on my shoulder, each with their chest to my back.. The queen stepped forward and removed her daughter's veil. I gasped.

"It's you!" I exclaimed, surging forward. Her hair, skin, eyes, it was all exactly as I remembered from the morning I woke on the beach. My savior! Izabel smiled and covered her mouth with her delicate hand. The ring I had been looking for was on her finger. Isaïe's amber eyes hardened, and Irsk's blue eyes watered, already happy for me. Isaïe took Irsk's hand and pulled her out to leave me and Izabel with our parents to plan the wedding.

Isaïe fixed the royal purple sash over my shoulder. His hands ran over my back, smoothing the dark fabric of my wedding attire. "Do you love Princess Izabel?" he asked.

"Of course," I replied immediately. What a question!

"Do you love Irsk?" he asked. I nodded. What was he getting at? "And do you love me?"

I turned to face him. His eyes were wide and honest. He had combed his chestnut curls back for the wedding. The look didn't suit him, so I pulled his curls down over his forehead into their usual style. His hand caught mine and held it against his cheek.

"Do you, Tristan?" His tongue flicked out to lick his lips as he stared at me. No, not even at me—_through _me, _into_ me.

"Isaïe," I began. He dropped his gaze and released my hand.

"I understand, servants aren't meant to be seen," he said, walking away quickly. I reached out, grabbing his wrist and effectively stopping him.

He looked hopeful as he turned around. My stomach clenched painfully. Feeling horrible, I said, "Isaïe, I love you, without doubt, but just as I love Irsk." The comparison seemed to cushion the blow, though pain and rejection were clear in his warm eyes.

"I'm happy for you," he said quietly, forcing a weak smile and tightening my necktie. I didn't have the heart to chide him for the lingering hands on my chest.

We set sail late that night. Irsk and Isaïe disappeared while I sat with my new bride. Izabel told me that she had come with her lady maids that year ago in secret. I didn't care. I only knew that she had saved me and I loved her for it.

I woke up early the next morning. Outside on the deck, I expected to see Irsk leaning over the railing like usual—she loved the sea—but she wasn't there. How strange. I found Isaïe and asked if he knew where she was.

"I haven't seen her since I awoke." If Isaïe hadn't seen her, she wasn't on the ship.

"Where could she have gone?" I asked myself frantically. I could feel my heart threatening to beat out of my chest. I was scared of losing her. I couldn't lose her! She was like a stray kitten I'd rescued and fallen in love with. Losing her would break me.

Isaïe stared at me. "She loved you, you know. We were alike in that manner. I didn't like her at first—I saw her as a threat—but, I suppose, it matters not anymore. She was heartbroken when you met Izabel. But the thing about Irsk, Tristan, is that she is such a beautiful person. She would have rather died than make you unhappy."

"What?" I asked. Isaïe didn't repeat himself, only leant over the railing and stared into the sea, where the hot sun was evaporating the sea foam that formed around the ship. It wasn't sudden—no, I had seen this coming, perhaps even subconsciously—but I understood. I wanted to cry. Tears burned behind my eyes. I couldn't breathe. I wanted to cry, but I wouldn't let myself. Warm arms wrapped around me from behind and Isaïe rested his head on my shoulder. I didn't turn away. I don't think I could've. He was my only friend left.

I felt warm rain on my cheeks. It was not the cold, harsh storm of that night years ago. It was not menacing or threatening. It was soft and kind and familiar. Looking up, I smiled. A rainbow stared down at me. It was blue like sapphire, red like a strawberry's flesh, and milky yellow like sunless skin. Its green, blue, indigo, and violet were as rich as royal dresses. I recognized its silent beauty. Soft rain and warm sun could not speak, but neither could a kind heart.


End file.
